The delicate throb continues, a bit more distant than before.
I wait and breathe and bend and break. I soften and break some more. So many others appear to have the golden ticket. Mine is drenched in daily sweat and clambering needs.
I loose myself of protection, give myself up for the constant full. I sink down with the dust. I laugh and gaze at all that resides on the floor. This, the ground of my child; the beginning of my matter and being.